


As You Wish

by pure1magination



Category: Captain America (Movies), Princess Bride (1987), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Princess Bride Fusion, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Fencing, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Kidnapping, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Revenge, Romance, The Princess Bride References, Torture, True Love, Winter Soldier references, some Civil War influence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-15 02:13:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7202120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pure1magination/pseuds/pure1magination
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Princess Bride AU<br/>Steve and Bucky as Westley and Buttercup, Tony as Inigo, some minor plot changes and Winter Soldier tie-ins</p><p>[Rated Teen for violence, torture, and references to severe depression]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Bucky Barnes, as the name might suggest, grew up on a farm. His two greatest pleasures were horseback riding, and tormenting the farm boy who lived there. His name was Steven, but Bucky never called him that.

Bucky loved the wind in his face, the way the sunshine kissed his skin. He loved the pungent-sweet smell of hay and manure, the powerful slide and shift of the horse’s muscles beneath him. If he closed his eyes, it felt like he was flying. He was a very talented horseman, envied throughout the region. He’d won many competitions with his trusted steed, Winter.

“There’s a good boy.” He patted the dappled-gray neck of his stallion. The horse whuffled and shook out his mane. Bucky gave him a fond rub, another pat, and then cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted “Hey punk!”

The diminutive farm boy emerged from a darkened stall, wiping his hands on a rag. He shot a questioning glance up at Bucky.

Bucky grunted as he dismounted his horse. “Take care of Winter, would ya? He needs a good rub-down.”

Steven quietly accepted the reins, eyes downcast, and led Winter to his stall.

Bucky trailed after them. “Took him for a run. Think his leg’s all healed-up. He ran _nice_ and smooth, didn’t you, boy?” Bucky gave Winter’s left flank a loving pat. The horse’s flank twitched reflextively. “Make sure you give him an extra carrot. And punk?”

Their eyes met once more. Something invisible crackled between them every time that happened. Bucky had never put a name to it, but he liked the feeling. “Polish that saddle. I want to see my face shining in it by morning.”

Steven regarded him for a long moment, trying to gauge if he was kidding. Those solemn blue eyes gave off just the slightest snark, and his mouth twitched up at the corner. “As you wish,” he said in that surprisingly deep voice of his.

‘As you wish’ was all he ever said to Bucky.

It had been years since they’d taken the young boy in, after his parents died in a tragic fire. He’d lost everything- his home, his family, all of his clothes. It had been generous of the Barnes family to take him in, to employ them on their farm, and ever since then, Steven had been overworking himself day and night to earn his keep. He seemed to be driven by a constant state of guilt over his living circumstances, always seemed to feel bad that he couldn’t hold his own, be independent. Bucky had told him countless times not to worry about it, but Steven had tired of arguing, certain Bucky would never understand, and their conversations had reduced to Bucky ordering him around and giving him a hard time, and Steven regarding him with tragic, determined eyes, and only ever answering him with ‘as you wish.’

It hit Bucky in the middle of the night like a bullet shattering glass: that feeling that crackled between them. He knew what it was.

He might not have figured it out, had he not been restless, unable to sleep, because Steven had not returned to the house yet. He must still be in the stables. Bucky turned aside his sheet, abandoned his futile effort to sleep, and padded barefoot out to the stables. A lantern burned low, in need of more fuel. The horses seemed on-edge. There was no sound, except for the crickets outside, and Bucky’s own heart pounding in his ears. He approached the open stable door.

There, on the ground, was the farm boy, one arm draped limply over a saddle, his other clutching his chest. His eyebrows were screwed together in pain. His chest rose and fell unsteadily, each exhale accompanied by an unhealthy wheeze.

“Steve!” Bucky knelt beside him, scooping him up. “Steve, you idiot! I was joking! You didn’t have to overwork yourself-! Steve, come on, stay with me. Steve!” Bucky had a hand on Steve’s face. It was warm. _Too_ warm.

Steve coughed feebly. He tried to draw in a breath, but it came in noisy and painful, and seemed to get caught in his throat.

“Steve,” Bucky pleaded, his own voice getting caught around the lump in his throat. He scooped Steven up in his arms and carried him to the house. “We need a doctor!” he shouted.

It was a couple hours later, as the doctor was calmly examining Steven with a stethoscope, that Bucky realized why it felt like his insides were being tugged by a drawn-out tightrope stretched straight between him and Steven, why his heart was pounding so hard, why he was so desperate for Steven to stay alive. This was the night Bucky realized that he truly loved Steve Rogers.

Bucky agonized over this. His parents had always told him he would feel these things for a girl. Bucky tried to make excuses, to rationalize about Steven’s long eyelashes and lush pink lips, his sleight build, the fact that the top of his head only came up to Bucky’s shoulder, but if Steven had been a girl, Bucky wouldn’t have felt the same. Bucky wasn’t sure if this meant he could only ever feel this way about men, or if he could only ever feel this way about Steven, but either way, it wouldn’t matter if Steven didn’t return his feelings.

He gave Steven space as he recovered from his illness, puzzled things out, and tried to figure out what to do. He still hadn’t quite figured it out when he walked into the stables one morning and Steven was there. Bucky swallowed his surprise and slapped on a cocky façade. “Punk,” he demanded. Steven turned around and met his eyes, ready for whatever challenge Bucky had. Bucky’s mouth flew on ahead of his brain before he could stop the words. “The wind blew my collar crooked on the way over here.” He swaggered towards Steven and came to a stop two yards away. He cocked an eyebrow and lifted his chin in challenge. “Straighten it for me?”

Nothing showed on Steven’s face but solemn determination. He closed the space between them in four quiet steps and came to a stop inches away, eyes locked with Bucky’s.

Bucky’s heart was pounding. He tried to breathe as quietly as he could, suddenly self-conscious that it sounded weird.

“As you wish,” Steven said, and reached up to straighten Bucky’s collar.

Bucky felt the warm, slow trail of Steve’s hands as he pulled Bucky’s collar straight. Steven’s fingers paused at the edge of Bucky’s collar. His eyes tracked up from Bucky’s collar to his neck, his chin, up to his mouth…

Bucky kissed him.

For a terrible, gut-dropping moment, Bucky thought he’d scared Steven away. Steven’s body stiffened. His hands tightened on Bucky’s collar. He gasped.

But Bucky pressed his lips harder against Steven’s. In for a penny, in for a pound. He might never get to do this again, so at least he’d have this one memory.

And then Steven was kissing back.

Bony fingers released his collar. Bony arms wound up around his shoulders, clinging to him, pulling him closer. That lush mouth opened against his, pleading. Their bodies arced together. He could feel Steven’s heart fluttering against his chest, feel Steven’s hurried breaths in each hot exhale against his cheek. Their tongues touched, and the world seemed to fall out from under them, and suddenly they were floating, and there was no one else, no other world but the inside of Steven’s mouth, no other sounds but those of their shaky breaths, no other music but the drum beat of their hearts.

For a while, they lived in a state of bliss. No one ever bothered them in the stables. Bucky could kiss Steven there to his heart’s content. As long as his clothes were straightened before he returned to the house, as long as they were careful to keep their interactions guarded outside of those four walls, they could carry on as before, and no one would be the wiser.

But as the months wore on, Steven’s guilt only seemed to increase.

One morning, Bucky swaggered down to the stables, only to find that Steven had packed up his few belongings into a sack and seemed to be getting ready to leave. “Steve?”

Steven raised his head, that ever-present guilt written all over his face, the hunch of his shoulders. “I found myself a job, Buck.”

“What’s wrong with your job here?”

Steven stood. He bore a pained expression. “It’s not like that, Buck.”

“Then what _is_ it like, Steve? Because it looks an _awful_ lot like you’re leaving. Is this because of me?”

“Buck…”

“Is it?!”

Steven sighed and picked up his bag. “You knew I wasn’t gonna stay here forever.”

“Well, no, you wanted to be independent, but-! I thought you and me…”

Steven levelled him a look that made Bucky’s guts slink down to his shoes. “That we, what? Could just keep sneaking off to the stables and pretend everything is okay? –I’m not happy here, Buck. I can’t stay here like some kept woman. I need to get by on my own.”

Bucky stepped closer, shaking his head, and laid a hand on Steven’s shoulder. “But the thing is… you don’t have to.”

Steven backed away. “I’ve joined the navy.”

“The _navy?_ Christ, Steve, they’ll eat you alive! You won’t last a day!”

“Watch me.” Steven turned on his heel and headed for the door.

Bucky’s gut turned cold. “Wait!” He ran after Steven and tried to block the doorway. “Steve, I’m serious! The navy is tough! They’ll work you hard, they won’t feed you enough, you’ll never get enough sleep-! They shouldn’t even be _taking_ guys like you!”

Steven’s eyes hardened. His back straightened as much as it could, given his scoliosis. “Goodbye, James.”

Everything Bucky said after that seemed to fall on deaf ears. No matter how Bucky pleaded, or chastised, or scorned, Steven kept marching on. Even his cries of ‘I love you’ as tears streamed down his face didn’t stop Steven from leaving.

Bucky spent days in his room after that. He neither slept nor ate. He was sure that Steven had been sent to his certain death. He was completely unsurprised, a few weeks later, to receive a letter that Steven’s ship had been captured by pirates, and everyone on-board had died.

He fell silent. He stopped talking to anyone and everyone, dead to the outside world. His hair grew long, his face stubbly. He had to force himself to eat, once every few days, and other than that, he lived on bread and water. Everything around the farm house reminded him of Steven. He stopped riding. He stopped tending the horses. He stopped doing just about anything besides stare off into space, with his hands clenched in his lap, blaming himself for everything.

His parents thought it would be better if they moved into the city.


	2. Chapter 2

Bucky started a new life for himself in the city. He kept his hair long, and his beard unshaven, and was known as a quiet recluse who was a genius with horses. He mostly kept to himself, only venturing out of his house for food and supplies. He only ever smiled at horses. And even then, it was the broken smile of a man who has lost everything.

Bucky’s parents were amazed and impressed when Sir Alexander sent Bucky a summons to the castle.

“You should go!” his mother urged.

“Don’t see the point.” Rarely used as his voice was, it always came out rough and reluctant.

“The letter says here,” his father said, “that Princess Sharon has taken a liking to you. You know she’s looking for a husband.”

“This could mean you could be _king!”_ his mother exclaimed.

Bucky sighed heavily. “Don’t see the point.”

“The point?!” his mother screeched. “Bucky! You could be _rich!_ You’d never have to work a day again in your life!”

“Don’t care about money.”

“Everyone in the _kingdom_ would look up to you!” she pressed.

Bucky stared mutely out the window.

“Son,” his father said, laying a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, “A beautiful woman is offering you a chance at a life of luxury. You could provide for your family in ways I never could. Your mother, your sisters- we would never have to worry about food or clothing again. But it’s up to you, son. We can’t make you do anything. I know your mother has been eyeing that dress at The Wasp, and Becca was hoping for a nice pair of shoes for that dance coming up in May, but you don’t _have_ to give them these things. You could just sit around in a corner all day, or tend the horses. It’s up to you, kiddo.”

“…Fine. I’ll answer the summons.”

Bucky stared out the window with dead eyes as his mother flitted around and his sister brushed his hair. He looked forward to this almost as much as he looked forward to attending his next funeral.

*

The castle was large and intimidating, the gatekeeper gruff and skeptical until Bucky showed him the royal summons. He showed Bucky inside the throne room and announced his presence to the king and queen.

The king was quite frail and needed a cane to walk. He looked as though he might fall asleep any second.

The queen was regal and little more than a baggy sack of bones, but she held her head high, and there was a commanding presence about her. Gray curls rested limply on her shoulders, an echo of past beauty. “Come forward,” she ordered.

Bucky shuffled forward. “You summoned me?” he said with as much volume as he could muster.

The queen’s eyebrows creased. She turned to her husband in confusion. “Did we?”

The king jolted awake and blinked around as though he’d never seen the room before. “What?”

“Did we summon him?”

“Summon who?”

The queen blinked. “What?” She looked at Bucky as though seeing him for the first time. Her forehead furrowed in confusion. “What are you doing here?”

“Ah,” interrupted a third voice. “There you are.”

All three heads turned towards the strawberry-blond man in a burgundy doublet striding towards them.

“Forgive the king and queen for their… confusion,” the man said in a voice smooth like ice. “I was the one who summoned you.”

“Alexander,” the king said in his creaky voice, “You know why this man is here?”

“Indeed I do.” Alexander bowed before the king and queen, then gestured to Bucky. “Your niece has taken a liking to this man. I thought it would be beneficial for us to test him, and see whether he would make a good king.”

“Do what you have to.” The queen waved a hand.

“I’m glad she’s found someone,” the king’s murmur echoed as Sir Alexander led Bucky out of the throne room. “She’s been so hard to please.”

“Always took after me,” the queen answered proudly.

“This way,” Alexander commanded.

Bucky had no choice but to follow.

They went down winding hallways, down several staircases to what Bucky assumed must have been a dungeon. The weight sitting in his chest pressed down on him so hard, nothing surprised him anymore. “Thought we were going to see the Princess.”

“Oh, we will,” Alexander granted. “In time.” He opened a wrought-iron door and waited for Bucky to enter the cold, stone room.

“And what am I gonna do until then?”

The door closed behind him. “Patience,” was his only answer.

Alexander’s footsteps faded away. The room was dark and damp, lit by only a few flickering candles. Bucky wasn’t sure what was in store for him, but he had the sneaking suspicion it wasn’t quite as rosy as the letter made it seem. Whatever tests he was supposed to endure, however he was supposed to prove himself for this woman he’d never met, none of this sat right with him. But then, none of that seemed to matter. Nothing did, anymore.

“I trust you are feeling… comfortable,” said a heavily accented voice which nearly made Bucky jump.

He spun around to face the source of the voice—a short, bald man with round, thick glasses and a black-and-gray ensemble. He wore gloves. Bucky did a double-take. His eyebrows creased. His mouth opened, but the man cut him off. “Ze princess was very eager to make your acquaintance, Mister Barnes.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Never met her.”

“No,” the man agreed. “But you will.” He gestured to a stone slab in front of him. “Please… Have a seat.”

Something about the situation seemed very wrong. “I’d rather not.”

The short, bald man seemed completely unfazed. “Very well. You may stand. But ze seat is zere, should your feet get… tired.” He gave Bucky a smile that sent spiders crawling through his intestines.

“Why am I here?”

“So zat ve can assure you are a good match for ze princess.”

“Can’t she decide that herself?” Instinctively, Bucky’s eyes darted about the room, searching for an exit.

The short, bald man chuckled. “You know how women are. So flighty… Such bad decision-makers.” He leaned forward. “I have heard you lost a woman of your own.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “I’ve never had a woman.”

“No,” the short, bald man agreed. “You had a _friend_ whom you lost to war. A very _tragic_ story, to be sure. But you mourned him as you would a woman, and have been a broken man ever since. Zat,” the bald man said, standing, “is cause enough for concern.”

“So, what? Is this all just a front to kill me?”

“Please, Mister Barnes. Ve did not bring you here to kill you.”

“Then what? Why am I in this prison? What do you want from me?”

“It is as ve said. Ve vant to make sure you are a good match for ze Princess.”

“What do you want me to do?” Bucky clenched his fists.

The short, bald man smiled.

Bucky didn’t know where the other men came from. His depression had dulled his senses to the point where he realized everything too late. He didn’t have the energy, nor the will to resist them, and a dark part of his mind kept saying it wouldn’t matter if he did. He put up a feeble fight, but was easily strapped down to the stone slab, his legs, wrists, and chest secured with thick leather straps. He watched the short man with the glasses stride across the room with his hands clasped behind his back, watching Bucky with a self-satisfied smile.

“And now,” the short, bald man said, “ve begin ze procedure.”

Something was injected into Bucky’s left arm. It burned through his blood like wildfire. He tried to scream, but the sound was stifled by the gag in his mouth. He tried to writhe, but his limbs were strapped down. He hoped against hope that the pain would be so bad that he’d pass out, or die, but he was trapped in excruciating agony for what seemed like hours.

Something else was injected, this time into his right arm. An odd, prickling sensation crept through him. His stomach flipped and flopped and twisted. He broke out into a cold sweat. He clenched his fists and struggled against the restraints. He screamed against his gag.

The short, bald man jotted something down into a book he was holding, calm to the point where he seemed detached from the whole situation unfolding in front of him.

Just as abruptly as it had started, suddenly, it was over. The short, bald man closed and pocketed his notebook. The men blew out all the candles, leaving Bucky in complete darkness. He heard their footsteps echo on the stones, saw a dim sliver of light as they opened the door, and with a mighty creak, the door swung shut.

He was alone.

Bucky felt as though there were insects crawling just under his skin, as though he’d eaten something toxic, as though he was coming down with a fever, as though he were floating, flying, as though the room was spinning and pressing down on him and his muscles were tearing themselves apart from the inside out. He faded in and out of consciousness, the world around him seeming to warp and shift into ever-stranger facsimiles of reality.

Bucky felt sure he was going mad. He tried to grasp onto something, anything concrete that would remind him that a solid world exists, but the harder he tried, the more the world seemed to slip away from him.

He had no idea how much time had passed when the heavy door creaked open once more and someone re-lit the candles. The walls seemed to swirl and boil. Bucky let out a desperate sound against his gag.

“Oh good,” said that chilling voice from the night before, “you are still alive.”

Something else was injected into Bucky’s arm.

This one burned even worse than the first one. Bucky screamed and cried and writhed as searing fire engulfed his veins. This time, he passed out.

*

When Bucky awoke, he was alone in a cell. His restraints had been removed. He stared at his fingers as though they were alien. He couldn’t remember how he got here. The last thing he remembered felt like a nightmare.

“Good morning, Barnes!” greeted Sir Alexander.

Bucky stared up at him in distrust.

“You had quite the night last night,” Sir Alexander said with a hint of concern to his voice. “Had we known you were suffering from a fever when we brought you here, we of course would have tended you with medical attention as soon as possible.”

Bucky frowned. He tried to piece together whether he’d really had a fever. He remembered heat, and pain, the room swimming…

“You were so delirious, we had to restrain you! I do hope your wrists aren’t too sore. You seem to be feeling better now, at any rate.”

Bucky stared at the red marks on his wrists. What Alexander was saying made sense, but there was something not quite right about it. Bucky couldn’t put his finger on it.

“You’ll have to forgive your surroundings.” Alexander gestured to the cell around him. “We couldn’t risk the royal family getting sick.”

The more Alexander said, the less Bucky was sure of his own fractured memories. There was a soothing quality to Alexander’s cool, sure voice. Bucky began to think that maybe Alexander was right. Maybe he’d imagined the whole thing. That didn’t sit quite right, but Bucky hadn’t been in his right mind for nearly five years now. It was entirely possible that Bucky’s own mental instability had led him to believe or imagine things that weren’t true.

“Anyway,” Alexander said, assuming a jovial tone, “How would you like a tour of the castle grounds? I hear you like horses.”

The castle grounds were large and expansive, endless rolling hills of perfect green. There were gardens and pathways and a huge, dense forest. The horses were all impeccably groomed and in perfect shape. Bucky breathed in the familiar scent of hay and manure. Sir Alexander’s voice guided him coolly through the tour. He remarked that Bucky may have his own horse here someday, provided that he passes all the tests and proves himself a good match for Sharon.

This all seemed perfectly reasonable to Bucky. “When do I get to meet Sharon?”

“In due time.” The tone of Sir Alexander’s voice made Bucky feel guilty for questioning him. “First, there is another test you must go through.”

Bucky quietly wondered what the first test was. He couldn’t remember anything. Perhaps it had been his conversation with the short, bald man with the glasses. He couldn’t remember the entire thing. That felt important.

That must have been it.

Sir Alexander led Bucky back into the castle, back down the winding corridors and down several flights of stairs. Unease prickled at the back of Bucky’s neck, but he knew better than to argue.

“There you are.” Alexander shoved Bucky into a familiar stone-walled room. “He’s all yours.”

The short, bald man with the glasses grinned up at him.

Bucky was asked several strange questions which he later could not recall. The questions didn’t seem to be connected. And once again, before he realized what was happening, he was being forced down to the stone slab and being restrained. He fought harder this time, but it was useless. A needle glinted in the candlelight. Bucky’s eyes widened. He flinched away, but there was nowhere to go. He writhed and yelled, trying to get away from the slowly approaching needle, but it pierced his skin and whatever-it-was flooded through his veins and then his world was on fire.

Something else was injected in his other arm, something that made his whole arm feel like a giant bruise. Everything was sore and burning and prickling and numb. His eyes watered constantly, but no matter how he screamed or sobbed, they had no mercy.

Bucky was told again the next morning that he’d had a fever, that he’d relapsed from the night before. The words should have been less convincing this time, but to Bucky they made perfect sense. He was taken out to the garden for some air. He was asked more odd questions he didn’t know the answers to. And just when he was starting to believe that he’d really shown up at the castle with some horrible sickness that made his memory faulty, he was led back down the winding halls and the narrow staircases, back into the cold, damp room, and no matter how hard he fought back, he was restrained once more, and injected once more.

This went on for days.

Every day, Bucky would wake up confused and disoriented, and every day, Sir Alexander would soothe him and feed him lies.

Bucky was given tours of the castle grounds, the dungeons, the lower levels of the castle, and the lesser-used parts of it, but never the main parts, never the parts where the royal family dwelt. He was told this was because he needed to pass ‘the test’ first, but he was never told what this test would be.

Every night was spent in agony, being injected with increasingly painful things that seemed to warp reality around him and change him from within. Despite near-complete lack of exercise, Bucky’s thin, neglected form was packing on pounds of tough muscle. He was confused, and broken, and doubting his own mind, yet he grew more and more fit by the day.

One morning, Sir Alexander was called away while he and Bucky were in the gardens. Sir Alexander suggested that Bucky take one of the horses for a ride. Then, Bucky was left alone.

Bucky saddled up one of the horses and decided to take the offered ride about the castle grounds. He rode farther and farther away from the castle, anxiety spurring his heels. Something about that place didn’t feel right, although he couldn’t explain it. He could barely remember what had happened to him since he got there. Sometimes, he would remember things he didn’t think he knew. Other times, he couldn’t remember things he was sure he did.

Bucky hadn’t realized how far away from the castle he’d gotten until the forest started to thin out. He startled when he saw three men standing in a clearing. He pulled his horse to a halt.

“Pardon me,” said the dark-haired man dressed in green and black, “But we are poor, lost circus performers. Tell me, is there a town nearby?”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. He tried to remember. He took in the tall, slender man with the pale skin and dark hair, the even taller blond man with bulging muscles and a golden-brown beard, and the short, dark-haired man with a smartly trimmed goatee, whose arms were folded across his chest.

“No,” Bucky said at last. “There’s nothing around. Not for miles.”

The blond man moved.

The tall dark-haired one spoke. His mouth was turned up in a half-smile. “Then there will be no one to hear you scream.”

Bucky didn’t have time to react; once more, he was being grabbed from behind, and his mouth was covered with a large hand, and once again, he was unconscious.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter~

This time, Bucky awoke on a ship. He couldn’t see the other people on the ship, considering the blinding sunlight which had turned his vision green, but he could hear them. “Where are you taking me,” he asked, not really caring about the outcome.

The tall dark-haired one spun around. “You are the one who the Princess has chosen for a husband, are you not?”

“Yeah I am.” Bucky eyed him. “Least, that’s what they tell me. Who are you?”

The tall dark-haired man grinned. His smile cut like a knife. “Shouldn’t you be less concerned about my identity and more concerned about your fate?”

Bucky snorted. “I stopped caring what happens to me years ago.” He broke eye contact and turned his head to the side, deciding that wherever he was being taken, it was better than the weird, unsettling situation he’d left behind.

“Brother.” The beefy blond one laid a gigantic hand on the tall man’s shoulder. “I think he is depressed.”

“Then he shall put up less of a fight when dying.”

“Whoa, whoa! _Dying?_ Who said anything about _dying?”_ asked the short one with the goatee. “ _You_ said we were just _kidnapping_ him!”

The tall dark-haired man rolled his eyes. “Did you _really_ think we were going to go to all this trouble in order to keep him _alive?”_

“Okay, no, see, it sounds stupid when you put it that way, but there are other options! A prisoner transaction! Another member of the crew! Dropping him off somewhere, handing him off to someone, returning him to his long-lost family or whatever, there’s a _lot_ of things we could have been doing with him but _dying._ ”

“He will be murdered on the Shielder frontier,” explained the tall dark-haired man with an air of disdain. “That is what the prince _hired us to do._ ”

“Okay but _why?”_

“Does it _matter_ why?” the tall dark-haired man countered. “We are going to be paid for it, we are going to be rich, and we have been given diplomatic immunity, so after we assassinate this stranger, _we_ can do whatever we want.”

“Within reason,” rejoined large blond man.

The tall dark-haired man sent him a narrow-eyed look.

“Who’s killing him?” piped up the man with the goatee in a defensive tone. “Because I can tell you right now-”

 _“I’ll_ be killing him,” answered the tall dark-haired man impatiently.

“Not that it’s of any concern to me,” Bucky rejoined, “but why exactly am I dying?”

The tall dark-haired man arched an eyebrow. “Other than the fact that we are hired assassins?” He opened his hands out to both sides, an open stance, yet challenging. “Presumably because it will start a war.”

The big blond one frowned. “Brother!” he began with concern.

“Don’t tell me you two hadn’t put that together.”

“Okay, see, we _would_ have put that together a lot sooner if we knew we were, y’know, _murdering_ him.” The one with the goatee crossed his arms again and glared at the tall dark-haired one.

The tall dark-haired one sighed. He explained as though it were all obvious. “Why do you think we were hired by a bastard prince to murder the future husband of the crown princess?”

The blond beefy one stared at him blankly.

The one with the goatee rapidly tapped his foot, frowning. “Okay, see, but that wouldn’t change anything. The bastard prince would still be a bastard, and the crown princess still has the right to the throne.”

“But it _would_ be seen as an obvious warning sign,” the tall dark-haired one explained. “It is a clear act of war.”

The one with the goatee shifted his stance and cocked his head to the side. “So _you’re_ saying that if we kill the future husband, it looks like a message that the rival country doesn’t want her to be queen, does _anyone_ else see a problem with that?”

“It is not our concern whether the plan works,” murmured the tall dark-haired man.

“I’m not sure I _like_ this job anymore,” challenged the man with the goatee.

“By all means,” invited the tall dark-haired one mockingly, “Feel free to quit anytime. Then perhaps you can go back to how you were when I found you. Stinking drunk in a ditch, pleading for money to buy your next dose of bourbon.”

“Don’t you _dare_ bring that up!”

“Oh,” the tall dark-haired one said with a bit of a laugh, “I think I should.”

“I can get by on my own!” the one with the goatee insisted, sounding as though even he didn’t believe himself, but like he would do something dangerous and not-very-well-thought-out to prove it.

Bucky chuckled bitterly. “That’s what he said.”

Three heads turned to regard him with different expressions of confusion.

Bucky’s own expression faded into nothing. “Never mind.” He glanced at the tall dark-haired one. “How long until I die?”

“We’ll be sailing through the night. We should reach the Shielder frontier sometime tomorrow.”

Bucky settled back against the wall of the ship. “Works for me.” He tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and drifted off to the sound of the three men bickering.

Sometime during the night, a feeling of unease crept over the crew, because the one with the goatee seemed certain that someone was following them. The tall dark-haired one seemed convinced that this was impossible. “The idea that anyone has figured out our plot and is coming after us in the middle tonight is simply inconceivable,” he snapped in cool, crisp tones. “No one in Shielder knows we’re here, and no one in Hydrance could have gotten here so fast.”

And yet the short dark-haired one’s attention kept boomeranging back to a point somewhere off behind them. “See, I hear you, but how do you explain that guy?” He pointed at the distant sails illuminated in the ghostly moonlight. There was a ship, and it appeared to be gaining on them.

The tall dark-haired man rolled his eyes. “What guy?” Finally, he got to his feet and padded to the side of the ship. He stood beside the man with the goatee. Their height difference was almost comical. The tall dark-haired man narrowed his eyes and peered at the ship. “It’s probably a local fisherman out for a cruise at night.” His words rang hollow.

“If that’s a fisherman,” the man with the goatee countered, “why is he gaining on us?”

They sailed uneasily on and reached shore by morning. The shore was a sheer rocky cliff, hundreds of feet high, with nearly no handholds or footholds anywhere in sight. The only way up this cliff was to climb a rope which they had already installed. The huge blond guy strapped himself into a harness with three loops of leather. The two dark-haired men strapped Bucky into the first loop, securing him against the blond man’s back. Then they each strapped themselves in, one on each side, and the blond man began to climb.

When they were most of the way up, the boat which had been following them docked just behind their ship, and a man dressed head-to-toe in black, mask and all, leapt out of the ship and rolled nimbly onto the rocky ledge below the cliff.

“Um,” the man with the goatee said, “Could you possibly climb faster?”

“What is it _now?”_ the tall dark-haired man asked with a dramatic eye roll.

“That ship that was following us? Yeah. It’s here, and there’s a guy, and he’s climbing up behind us.”

All of them glanced down.

The man in the mask was scurrying up the rope like he was born for it.

“Faster,” the tall dark-haired man urged.

The beefy blond man hastened his pace. Arm over arm, he pulled them towards the top, his muscles bulging with the effort. Occasionally, one of them would glance down and note that the man in the mask was still there, and still gaining on them. Once they reached the top, the tall dark-haired man pulled a dagger out of his pocket. He took four long strides towards the rock with the rope tied around it, knelt beside the stretched-out twine, and sawed until it snapped. The frayed rope pulled back and fell off the edge of the cliff, embraced by gravity.

The three of them peered over the edge.

Vertigo clutched at their guts; it was a sheer drop hundreds of feet down into rocky water. One step too far would mean instant death. The rope had fallen all the way down the cliff, coiling in knots at the bottom. Yet there, clinging to the side of the cliff, was the man in the mask.

“Holy shit,” the man with the goatee observed. “He’s climbing.”

“Tony,” the tall dark-haired instructed sharply. “Wait for him. If he makes it to the top, kill him with your sword.” He strode purposefully away from the cliff face.

“Yeah, uh, I can do that, but one problem.”

The tall dark-haired man gritted his teeth and rolled his eyes. “What is it?”

“I have to fight him left-handed.”

He frowned.

Tony took this as encouragement to go on. “See, if I used my right hand, it would feel like kind of a betrayal to my old man. So I’ve gotta use my left one. Otherwise, the whole experience is gonna feel cheapened.”

The tall dark-haired man ground his jaw. “Do whatever you have to do. But kill him.” He resumed his war path, dragging the other two with him.

“Right!” Tony called after them. “I’ll do that.”

Tony was left alone at the top of the cliff. He paced uneasily, checking over the side every so often. The man all in black was gradually making his way up the sheer cliff face, teeth gritted, determination in every movement.

“I don’t suppose you could speed things up?” Tony called down.

“Not unless you can change gravity,” grunted a sarcastic voice.

Tony pulled a face and resumed his pacing. He paced back and forth from the cliff’s edge a few more times. “You _sure_ you can’t go faster?”

The man dressed in black paused. He still had several yards to go. “Not unless you’ve got a rope or something.”

Tony held up one finger. He grabbed the rope they’d severed earlier. This guy wouldn’t need it wrapped around the rock so many times. With his weight, alone, probably once around the rock would do it. He held the end of the rope out over the edge of the cliff. “Would this work?” he called down.

The man paused again and eyed it. “I’m not sure I trust you with that.”

Tony snorted. “I’m not gonna let you fall.”

“No?” The man resumed climbing. Each word came out strained. “And what makes you think I’m gonna believe that?”

Tony rolled his eyes and stared at the sky in annoyance. “Uh, because I _want_ you up here?”

“Yeah?” A grunt. “Why’s that?”

Tony threw his hands out in exasperation. “Well, it’s better than being stuck on a goddamned cliff face, isn’t it?!”

“Language!”

Tony spluttered and threw the rope down on the ground. “Really? _Really?_ Is _that_ how you’re gonna play it?”

The man didn’t answer. He just kept climbing.

Tony paced in frustration. He didn’t want to be waiting there all day. He popped his head back over the edge of the cliff. “What if I swore on my word as a Spaniard?”

“No good.” The man kept climbing. “Known too many Spaniards.”

“Fair point.” Tony chewed it over. “Is there anything you _will_ believe?”

“Nothing comes to mind.”

Tony watched the man climb. The man had a will of steel, he had to give it to him. “I swear on the grave of my father, Howard Antonio Walter Stark. You _will_ reach the top alive.”

The man eyed him through his mask. He was catching his breath, clinging to a rock a few yards away from the cliff ledge. “…Throw me the rope.”

Tony threw the end of the rope over the cliff. The man dressed in black grabbed it and climbed with surprising speed. Tony reached out a hand to help him climb onto solid ground. The moment they released hands, the man in black reached to his belt to pull out his sword.

“Whoa!” Tony laid a hand on his arm. “Take a rest first! That… was some _intense_ climbing. Catch your breath first.” He released the guy’s arm and backed away.

Blue eyes regarded him through the eye-holes in his mask. “Thank you.” The masked man sat down on a nearby boulder. He took off his boots one by one and emptied them out. Dust, sand, pebbles, and shells tumbled to the ground.

Tony had a feeling he already knew the answer, but he had to ask. “By the way. You wouldn’t happen to have six fingers on your right hand, would you?”

He couldn’t actually _see_ the guy cock an eyebrow behind his mask, but he could feel it. “Is this how you always start conversations?”

Tony snorted. It was almost funny. But… “-My father was killed by a six-fingered man.”

The masked man winced. “Sorry to hear that.”

“Hey. Not your fault.” Tony’s leg jiggled restlessly as the masked man emptied rocks out of his second boot. “It’s just,” Tony continued, “I’ve spent my whole life trying to find this guy. I mean, he could be _anyone_.”

“You didn’t see his face?”

Tony’s mouth pulled into a grim line. “The thing about this guy, is he doesn’t like to get his hands dirty. He hires people to do his dirty work for him. Brainwashes them, tortures them, breaks them until there’s nothing left, and then when he’s done with them, he kills them. Technically, the man who physically murdered my father died years ago. But I saw the master pulling the puppet’s strings, so-to-speak. I didn’t get more of a glance of him in the shadows, but it was enough to piss him off. So he gave me this.” Tony gestured to a thin white line of scar tissue on his cheek. “And this.” He turned to show the matching slanting line on his other cheek.

The masked man’s eyes lit with sympathy and righteous anger. “How old were you?”

“I was thirteen.” Tony tried to sound disaffected, because he hated being regarded with pity on his road to vengeance. Sympathy was fine, but pity, he hated. “Took up swordfighting right after that. I’ve been training for twenty years. But the thing of it is, this guy is a _bitch_ to track down. He operates from the shadows, sends his lackeys to do his dirty work. I’m not even sure how he finds them. Guys with no families, no connections. No one who will miss them when they’re gone.”

“Well,” said the masked man, standing and brushing himself off, “I hope you find him someday.”

“Me too. So, you ready to do this?” Tony’s hand hovered over the hilt of his sword.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Both men drew their swords.

Both men eyed each other, battle stances ready, each holding their sword in their left hand.

Tony made the first move. Their swords clanked as the masked man easily blocked him.

Tony went in for another blow. Once again, their swords clanked together.

They fenced and parried, swung and twirled, each man dancing about the rocky terrain as though this were a choreographed ballet. Their movements flowed fluid, graceful, the metal of their swords clashing together over and over again, blades whooshing just past where one of them ducked or spun out of the way. Both men knew how to use the other’s momentum to their advantage, knew how to block every hit.

“Who are you?” Tony asked, their swords locked once more.

“No one of consequence.”

“C’mon.” Their blades pressed harder against each other. “I need to know.”

The masked man broke the hold, nearly taking Tony’s shoulder out with it. They resumed their dance. Tony was tiring out, though. This guy was built like a brick house. He wasn’t even breaking a sweat. Tony, meanwhile, had salt water dripping down into his eyes, and had to gulp in between pants to lubricate his drying throat.

It wasn’t much of a surprise when the masked man gained the upper hand. He knocked Tony’s sword out of his grip and sent Tony falling to his knees.

Tony closed his eyes, ready for the killing blow.

“I’m really sorry about this,” the masked man said with odd sincerity. He whacked Tony over the head with the butt of his sword.

Tony fell to the ground, unconscious.

*

Thor was not exactly thrilled that Loki had assigned him the task of killing the masked man so brutally, much less without contest. Fighting was half the fun. Besides, if the masked man was talented enough to beat Tony in a fight, he must truly be a worthy opponent.

Thor picked up a large rock, the size of a human skull. He waited for the masked man to wander amidst the boulders. He held very still, controlling his breathing so that he was near-silent. Just when the masked man seemed sure he was safe, Thor hurled the rock directly at the space where the masked man’s head would have been.

The masked man startled. He whirled to find the source of the rock, sword out.

“Hello there!” Thor boomed.

“Hello,” the man returned, eyeing him warily.

Thor picked up another rock. “I heard you have defeated my friend.” He tossed the rock in the air and caught it. “Defeating me will not be so easy.”

The masked man eyed Thor’s considerable bulk. “I could take you.”

Thor shrugged. “Perhaps.” He tosses the rock from hand do hand. “If we level the playing field.”

The masked man shifted his weight and eyed their surroundings. “No weapons?”

“No weapons,” Thor agreed. He set down his rock. He took up a battle stance, grinning, legs spread wide, knees bent. “Whenever you’re ready!”

The masked man barreled towards him with surprising speed and flew at him with a flurry of punches. Thor delightedly blocked each punch. “Good!” Thor observed, “You are not holding back!”

“Unlike you,” the masked man grunted.

Thor had not attempted a single punch.

“I am just getting warmed up,” Thor said, amused and jolly.

The masked man continued punching Thor, and Thor kept blocking his punches. The man’s speed and power were impressive, as was his stamina. Once Thor did start slowly punching back every now and then, the masked man proved an expert at dodging, and using Thor’s weight and strength against him.

Thor laughed warmly. “This is the best fight I have had in ages!” he praised.

“Glad you’re enjoying it,” the masked man said through gritted teeth. He upped his game so that the fight became brutal.

Thor was surprised at the sudden intensity of his fight. He accepted it with his own renewed vigor. Punches began to land. The masked man took every punch like a champ.

“I do not blame you if I wear you down,” Thor said cautiously after he split the man’s lip.

Between panting breaths, the man answered, “I could do this all day.” And he barreled into Thor and knocked him over.

The breath whooshed out of Thor as his back struck a rock. He barely had time to recover before something heavy slammed into the top of his head and everything went black.

The masked man held a hand near the large man’s nose in order to make sure he was still breathing. “Sleep well,” he said, climbing off of him. “Sorry it had to end like that.” He scanned the horizon, found what he was looking for, and set off in that direction at a jog.

*

“What do you mean he’s _gone?”_ Sharon asked in exasperation.

Sir Alexander shook his head tragically. “I am sorry, my dear, but that is all we know. He went for a ride on horseback this morning, and no one has seen him since.”

“You just _lost_ him?” Sharon crossed her arms and eyed him with a glare that was too intelligent for her own good.

“I’m sorry that it’s turned out this way,” Sir Alexander said, “But he came to us with a fever. It was unsafe to bring him near you. And he was just recovered enough this morning to go out and get some air, but he must have fainted in the woods. We don’t know where he—”

“Sire.” A man bowed before Sir Alexander and Princess Sharon. “A message for you, sir.”

“Thank you.” Sir Alexander took the message from the servant’s hand and read it over. Everything was going according to plan. “Dismissed,” he said without looking.

“Find him,” Sharon insisted.

“I shall do my best,” Sir Alexander said. “But he was delirious with fever. If he has relapsed, we have no _idea_ where he might have gone.”

*

Bucky had no idea what was going on anymore. He’d been abducted twice, trekked across the countryside, and was now sitting on a sun-warmed rock with a _blindfold_ over his face. As though knowing where he was would do him any good, anyway, considering he’d never _been_ here before.

The man next to him was beyond odd. He spoke as though he had everything already figured out, and seemed to think he was smarter than everyone, and yet his latest brilliant scheme seemed to involve a half-assed picnic which neither of them were apparently going to eat. Instead, they were going to sit here on this goddamned rock until whoever-it-was caught up with them. Bucky felt the tip of a metal blade press against his neck. One of Loki’s hands gripped the back of his hair, jerking his head back. Bucky’s nostrils flared.

“So it is down to you,” Loki said calmly, “And it is down to me.”

Bucky’s ears caught the faint sound of footsteps rustling the grass as someone approached nearer, cautiously. “I mean him no harm,” said a voice that sounded painfully familiar but couldn’t possibly be real.

“How _stupid_ do you think I am?” Loki spat. The blade pressed harder against Bucky’s throat.

“I’m only here,” the man said, “to rescue him.”

“You’ve killed not one, but _two_ of my former teammates, and you expect me to just _hand over_ my cash cow?”

“Loki,” the guy said, and for a moment Bucky felt stupid for not catching their names faster, “I know you want the money for killing him. But I can pay you that money. Just… give him to me.”

“I know better than to trust a simple pirate!” Loki spat. His hand tensed on the blade.

“Please,” the man’s voice said, much closer now. “Don’t make me do this.”

“If you want him, you’re going to have to fight me for him.”

Bucky could hear the reluctant resolve in the other man’s voice: “So be it.”

Loki stood from the rock and slammed the butt of his staff on the ground. The hairs on Bucky’s arms stood on-end as tension ratcheted up, electrifying the air. The two men circled. Then, there were whooshes of air and clashes of metal, angry grunts and vengeful ‘ha!’s, mostly from Loki.

Loki moved with even more fluidity than Tony had. His green eyes danced with danger. There was something unbridled about him, something fierce. Loki was a master of dodging and misdirection. Many times, he almost caught the masked man off-guard; many times, he nearly killed him. But the masked man fought hard. He shouldered many blows, and seemed to be losing the fight, but he kept on fighting.

“What could you _possibly_ want with him?” Loki spat. The masked man’s blade was once more locked with his staff. “He’s a _nobody!”_

“Not to me!”

More thumps, more grunts. The clash of metal against metal.

Loki furrowed his brows as his staff locked with the masked man’s blade once more. “Why could you _possibly_ want him that much?”

In lieu of answering, the masked man aimed a blow at Loki’s face. Loki realized too late that the masked man had pulled back and used this blow as a distraction; Loki’s legs went out from under him. The last words Loki heard were “Made you look.”

The masked man stood, panting, over the unconscious body of Loki.

He turned to cast a look at the blindfolded man sitting on the rock. The blindfolded man turned his head. “Did you win?”

“Yeah.” The masked man knelt before the blindfolded man and reached behind his head to untie the blindfold. His fingers, although large, were surprisingly warm and gentle. They sent an odd thrill racing along Bucky’s scalp.

Bucky blinked in the bright sunlight, squinting. _“Jesus,_ who turned the sun up so loud?”

“Language.” The masked man helped Bucky to his feet. “Come on. They’re probably right behind us.”

“They?”

But the masked man didn’t explain. He just led Bucky farther and farther away from the unconscious body of Loki.

*

“They’ve defeated the Spaniard,” Sir Alexander announced coldly. “There was…” He retraced the patterns of footsteps scattered throughout the sand. “-a mighty duel,” he concluded. “The loser followed those footprints.” He pointed at a trail leading off into the hills. “The winner… followed those footprints, toward Shielder.” He re-mounted his horse. “Onward!”

Sir Alexander led his clueless minions towards the remains of the next battle. The giant lay prone on the ground, his blond hair fanned out behind his head, arms flung out on either side. He somehow bore an air of majesty, even in his unconscious state.

“He has defeated the giant,” Sir Alexander said, genuinely impressed despite himself. He had been sure that if the Spaniard didn’t get him, the giant would. He masked his wariness with false concern. He was a master at faking concern.

 “This was not a man to be messed with,” Sir Alexander announced. “Onward!”

*

They came to a stop near the edge of a ravine.

“You wanna tell me why I’ve been kidnapped for the third time this week?” Bucky grumbled.

“I don’t know why you were kidnapped the first two times,” answered the masked man, squinting behind them, “but I doubt you’d believe me if I tried to explain.”

“Try me.”

The masked man leaned over to catch his breath. He was wheezing slightly. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t _matter?_ You fought three guys to the death for me and it doesn’t _matter._ I call bullshit.”

“Language.”

 _“Language?!”_ Bucky pushed at the man’s shoulders. “You drag me all the way out here and that’s all you have to say to me? _Language?_ –Fuck you!” Bucky shoved the man harder. “I don’t know _who_ you think you are, buddy, but I have been through hell and back, I have had it up to here with being kidnapped, and I am _this close_ to punching you in your goddamn face!”

Bucky barely had time to register that he’d shoved the man over the side of the ravine when the guy said the least expected thing possible: “As you wish!”

Bucky’s eyes widened. “YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!”

Bucky threw himself over the edge of the ravine and tumbled after him.

Sky, ground, sky, ground, end over end over end, Bucky banged himself up on the steep slope, tumbling faster and faster. His mind was spinning faster than his view. He skidded to a painful stop, grass staining his clothes. Bucky had more bruises than he dared to count. His whole body was buzzing. For the first time in five years, he felt _alive._

Steve’s mask had come off during his tumble. He rolled over towards Bucky and framed his face with one adoring hand.

“Steve,” Bucky croaked, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes. “I thought you were dead. How are you-? How is it you?” He swallowed. “How is it really you?”

“I’ll explain later.” Steve wiped the tear from Bucky’s cheek and leaned down for a tender kiss.

Bucky tugged Steve closer with both hands. Steve wrapped his arms around Bucky. They held each other close, tilted their heads further, and sealed their passion with their lips. Their hearts beat in tandem, two halves of a whole finally reunited. One perfect moment couldn't atone for all those years of loss, but with each caress of each other's lips, one more painful moment fell away, replaced, instead, with this.

Horses clattered to a stop near the top of the cliff.

Steve broke the kiss to cast a wary glance up at them.

Bucky followed his gaze with the broken look of a man who had lost all hope.

Steve pulled Bucky to his feet. “There’s only one way out,” Steve said. “Through the fire swamp.”

“We’ll never survive,” Bucky said mournfully.

“Nonsense!” Steve said, tugging Bucky forward. “You’re only saying that because no one ever has!”

Bucky groaned.

The twisted, barren trees stretched high overhead, their branches interlocking. The ground was brown and dusty, uneven terrain fraught with roots. Steve strode confidently onward as though this were any normal walk in the woods. But Bucky was on-edge, hyper-aware of their surroundings.

“You wanna tell me how you’re back from the dead?” Bucky said.

“Never died.” There was a clicking sound, and a whoosh. Both of them jumped aside as a gush of fire sprung upward from the ground. They continued walking. “My ship was attacked by pirates. But not everyone was killed. They kept some of us aboard, forced us to do servant work. But I was too weak to do just about everything. They gave up on most of the regular stuff they made captives do, and I got assigned as cabin boy. The captain- Nick Fury- decided to take it upon himself to start training me. Every night he’d say to me, ‘Good night, Steve. Sleep well. I’ll most likely kill you in the morning.’ Three years he said that to me. And then one day, he took on a new crew, handed me the outfit, and started calling me Captain. Once the crew believed it…” There was another clicking sound, another plume of fire. “Well, I’ve been the Dread Pirate Roberts ever since.”

“So, what, you just went around killing people? Stealing their money?” That sounded so different from the Steve he knew, Bucky felt dizzy.

“No, of course not! More of a… vigilante, of sorts.” Another click, another plume. Steve artfully ducked out of the way.

“And that’s how you got those muscles.”

“Pretty much.”

“So let me get this straight. You turned the most feared pirate in the seven seas into fucking _Robinhood_ and now you’re, what? Kidnapping me for the money?”

Steve stopped abruptly and glared at Bucky with a look so fierce it made Bucky’s heart stumble. Warm hands clamped Bucky’s upper arms with iron desperation. “If you _ever_ think that _anything_ is more important to me than you again—” Steve bit down on his lips and turned away, seething. His hands tightened on Bucky’s upper arms.

“Sure seemed like it,” Bucky said because his mouth didn’t know when to stop sometimes. “When you left me to join the military.”

“That was a mistake.”

“Sure didn’t seem to think that at the time.”

“I _died_ that day,” Steve said fervently, drawing Bucky closer, glaring into his eyes to make him understand. “Giving you up was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, and I’ve been working my way back to you ever since.”

“Then why’d you leave?!”

“Because it seemed like the right thing to do.”

Steve saw the hurt in Bucky’s eyes. “Bucky,” he started, but Bucky shushed him. “What’s that noise?” Bucky had heard a noise in the underbrush.

Both men fell silent. They strained their ears.

Steve frowned at him. “I don’t hear anything.”

The words had just barely left Steve’s mouth when something heavy crashed into his back, knocking them both over. Bucky rolled over and away, up onto his knees. Steve rolled onto his back, shaking the creature off of him, but it was too late. The gigantic rat kept lunging at him. Steve struggled to hold the snapping jaws away from his body, to keep the claws from scratching up his arms.

“Steve!” Bucky called.

Steve rolled himself over and over, trying to gain the upper hand with the rodent. The huge dog-sized rat kept snapping its jaws at him over and over, snarling. In the midst of the struggle, Steve accidentally left his shoulder open. The rodent bit down. Steve yelled out in pain.

Bucky scrabbled blindly for something, _anything_ to hit the rodent with to get it off of Steve. His fingers closed around a branch. He held the branch aloft and brought it down swiftly over the rodent’s back. The rodent protested with an angered squeal and sank its teeth deeper into Steve’s shoulder. Steve cried out louder.

The ground clicked nearby.

Steve frowned at the ground with desperate determination. He rolled the rodent over and over again, landing just in time with the rodent’s back on top of the plume of flame which emitted from the ground.

There was a sickening smell of burnt meat.

Steve unsheathed his sword and stabbed the beast several times.

The gigantic rat squealed each time it was stabbed, its fur still smoking from the fire. With a final groan, the rodent fell to the ground with glassy eyes. Blood leaked out of its limp mouth.

Bucky held Steve from behind.

Steve caught his breath, eyes closed, and tilted his head back, leaning into Bucky.

“If we die in here…” Bucky started.

“We’re not gonna die.” Steve said the words with vengeance on his tongue.

“But Steve-”

“Listen.” Steve twisted around to face Bucky. “I love you. Nothing is ever gonna take that away from me. Not again.”

“Steve.” Bucky grabbed his sweaty, bloody, dirt-smeared face and kissed him.

Steve kissed back with a pained groan.

They held each other close, but Steve’s shoulder was quite sore, torn open with lacerated gashes, and his shirt hung from it in strips. The slightest pressure caused them to break apart, Steve’s face screwed up in a pained wince.

“Shit! Steve, your shoulder!”

“It’s fine.” Steve clutched his arm just below the shoulder, wincing. He took in a few breaths through clenched teeth and let them out through pursed lips.

“Bullshit. We’ve gotta get you out of here.”

They traversed the remainder of the fire swamp with Bucky’s senses on high alert. Most of the trip was relatively uneventful. At one point Bucky stepped in a pile of sand which nearly swallowed his leg. Luckily, though, he was able to anchor himself and pull himself out of it. They avoided sand after that.

Fire wasn’t a problem; the ground always clicked before the plume of flame erupted.

And they did run across one more rodent of an unusual size, but Bucky sent the thing such a murderous glare through the trees that the thing backed down and scuffled away. If it had come any closer, Bucky would have killed it with his bare hands.

They arrived at the edge of the fire swamp feeling victorious. Steve was with Bucky again. Bucky was with Steve. All was right with the world.

And then.

“I’m not sure if you’re incredibly brave, or just plain stupid,” said Sir Alexander on his horse.

Steve’s arm tightened around Bucky’s waist. “Anyone who knows me would say I’m a little bit of both.”

“Intriguing. Guards.” Sir Alexander snapped his fingers. “This man attempted to kidnap the future king.”

Bucky’s eyes widened. He wrapped both arms around Steve’s waist and glared at them. “How do you even know I _want_ to be king?”

“The thing of it is,” Sir Alexander explained in a bored tone, “you don’t really have a choice. The royal family does what it wants. And they have chosen _you._ ”

The guards edged in on him and Steve.

“Don’t’cha think that’s a little unfair?” Bucky tried.

“It’s not up to me to decide,” Sir Alexander said. “You would do best to learn your place.”

“I know my place,” Bucky challenged.

“Good.” Sir Alexander’s guards pried him away from Steve. “Then this needs no further discussion.”

A guard raised his sword.

“WAIT!” Bucky screamed.

The guard hesitated.

“Will you _promise_ not to hurt him?”

“What was that?” Sir Alexander asked in confusion, surprised anyone would _dare_ question him.

“What was that?” Steve asked with equal confusion, his eyes filled with something wild.

“If I cooperate with you,” Bucky said, unable to look at Steve any longer, “and I come with you, and behave, and marry the princess… Will you _promise_ not to hurt this man?”

Sir Alexander considered this. He made a gesture. “Of course!” The guard dropped his sword. “Escort him back to the castle,” Sir Alexander instructed.

Bucky and Steve locked eyes one final time, just before Steve disappeared from Bucky’s line of sight.

Steve knew he had just walked into a trap. He knew Bucky was still in danger, and he wasn’t ready to give up. He considered his next play.

“Blindfold him,” was the last thing Steve heard before something heavy knocked against the back of his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and once again, we end with Bucky in pain.
> 
> I'm sorry, Bucky


	4. Chapter 4

“Good morning, Keptin.”

Steve squinted at his dimly-lit surroundings. Torch light flickered on damp stone walls. He seemed to be on some sort of table, near the middle of an indeterminably large room. Various tubes and boxes and canisters combined in oddly-shaped configurations. A particularly large one loomed nearby.

“Where am I?” Steve said, testing his restraints.

“I don’t think it matters,” replied the heavily-accented voice, “seeing as you vill not be making it out alive.”

A pudgy face loomed over him, round glasses glinting ominously in the torch light. He was smiling the way a wolf smiles at its prey.

Steve turned his head so he was staring straight at the ceiling. “We’ll see about that.”

The man seemed amused. “Yes. Ve shall see.”

There were a series of odd sounds- clinking, clanging, snipping, gurgling. The shuffle of footsteps. “Ve shall see,” the man repeated, more ominously.

Something cold and metal was strapped to Steve’s chest.

Steve watched the man warily as he walked around to the other side of him and paused, a smug smile playing at his lips. “Do you know vat zis is?”

“A metal box.”

“Very observant, Keptin,” the man patronized. “But only a superficial take on it, I’m afraid. You see, zis…” The man gestured to the machine he was standing in front of. “-is my greatest invention.”

“Sorry to break it to you,” Steve said, “but boxes have been around for a long time.”

The man chuckled. “Oh, it is _so_ much more zan a box, Keptin. Here—allow me to demonstrate.” The man flipped a switch.

The machine began chugging.

And then, suddenly, Steve arched away from the table in excruciating pain. The metal attached to his body seemed to punch him repeatedly from every direction. No matter how he tensed his muscles or attempted to flinch away, the pummeling did not stop. He squeezed his eyes shut, clenched his teeth, and fought to endure whatever was happening.

After an excruciating five minutes, the man calmly lowered a lever to the ‘stop’ position. He took a small notepad out of his pocket and readied a pencil with his other hand. He approached Steve’s still-twitching body.

“Impressed?”

Steve glared at him, breathing hard.

“Now, I should inform you, Keptin, zat zis machine is still in its… experimental stages. I am very keen for information. So, tell me, Keptin: I have just sucked one year of your life away.” He poised his pencil above the notepad. “How do you feel?”

Steve clenched his hands into fists. “I could do this all day.”

*

“Bucky!” Sharon called out, throwing her arms around his neck in a tight embrace.

Bucky paused mid-step, his arms thrown out uncertainly for balance.

Sharon drew back and slapped his cheek. “Where have you been?!” She frowned and cupped his face with both hands. “I’ve been so worried about you! Are you okay?”

Bucky rubbed at his cheek. “Better before you slapped me.”

“Sorry.” She didn’t sound sorry. “The guards said you went for a ride and never came back. We thought you’d run away! Sir Alexander had to assemble his finest hunters to track you down! Why would you want to leave?! I thought you wanted to be here! Your training has been going so well, _everyone’s_ been talking about how well you’ve been doing with your lessons and how you’ll make such a great king—isn’t this what you wanted?!”

Bucky grabbed both of her hands. He was grimacing. “Look, Princess, it’s nothing personal. It’s just…” Bucky sighed. He rubbed his thumbs over the backs of her hands. “…A long time ago, before I came here, I was the son of a farmer. We grew oats and corn, had a few chickens, a horse- we weren’t that well off, but we were better off than most, in our area.” He paused. His gaze grew distant and sad. “One night, there was a fire at one of our neighbors’ farms. They lost everything- the field, the barn, the house. Everyone died, except their oldest son. And, well, we’d been neighbors for over ten years. He felt almost like family to me. So I begged my ma, and we took him in.

“The kid was scrawny, had asthma and scoliosis and a cough that never went away, irregular heartbeat, prone to hypothermia _and_ hyperthermia, shit at regulating his own body temperature, always seemed to be catching something or getting over something else. But he had the prettiest blue eyes, and the softest blond hair, and no matter how the world was stacked against him, he never gave up.” Bucky’s voice warmed. “Being adopted wasn’t good enough for him; he had to make himself useful, so we gave him duties around the farm, let him feel responsible for stuff. ‘Course, I’d always cover for him when he got sick. He hated that,” Bucky recalled with a chuckle.

Something shifted in the shadows; Bucky ignored it. He went on, “Look, I know it’s strange, but Steve is so brave and strong, stronger than men twice his size, and when he left to join the military, it felt like… like I’d lost the most important part’a me. We got word that he was dead less than a month in. When Ma moved us to the city, I never imagined that I’d be here, that you’d pick me, and frankly, Princess, I still don’t know why.”

“-Why I’d choose a handsome guy who’s great with horses? Hmm,” Sharon pretended to think.

Bucky chuckled. His eyes softened. “You remind me of him, sometimes. About the same height, same hair color. Different eyes though…” He ran a finger through her hair. He watched his hand track through the honey-gold strands. “but I would never have agreed to come here if I knew he was still alive.”

“Because I’m not him,” Sharon concluded.

Bucky’s lips narrowed apologetically.

“So he’s still alive?”

Bucky’s sad eyes bored a hole into the space over her shoulder. “I know it sounds impossible, but he’s alive, and I saw him.” He swallowed and blinked rapidly. “I _saw_ him, Sharon.”

“Is that why you left?”

Bucky allowed silence to be his answer.

Sharon caught Bucky’s hands between her own. Her small shoulders squared with determination. “Then we’ll have to find him.”

“Yes,” Sir Alexander joined, stepping forward, “we certainly shall. I had no idea he meant so much to you.”

Bucky turned towards him, hands still caught between Sharon’s, his face cut open with naked hope.

“Captain!” he ordered. A very military-looking man with clockwork steps and a decorated uniform stepped forward. Sir Alexander smiled a politician’s smile. “I’d like to have a word with you.”

Whatever that word would have been, however, was interrupted by yet another entrance into the corridor. “Sir Alexander? There is a man at the door demanding to see you.”

“Send him in.”

The heavy wooden doors swung open. A tall, pale man with slicked-back black hair stormed in as though the doors could barely contain him. “You reneged on our bargain,” he hissed.

“Laufeyson,” Sir Alexander greeted coldly. “I gave you exactly what you deserved.”

“A pittance!” Loki spat, slamming the butt of his staff on the cobblestone floor. “That was less than a _tenth_ of what you owed me!”

“For doing less than a tenth of what I asked you. –Excuse me, gentlemen.” Sir Alexander escorted Loki out of the corridor and into a less echoey chamber where they could converse in relative quiet.

Once they were in the safe confines of one of Sir Alexander’s many private rooms, Sir Alexander released Loki’s wrist of his iron grip and gave him a pointed glare. “You were to _kill_ Barnes, was that so difficult for you?”

“Sir, allow me to explain-”

Sir Alexander slammed his fist down on a table. “There is nothing to explain! You are supposed to be one of the top assassins in the land! Your muscle, your speed, and your intelligence are supposed to be unmatched! And yet you can’t handle a simple _farm hand?!”_

“There were _complications,_ sir-”

“SCREW complications!” Sir Alexander roared. He lowered his voice to a deadly quiet and backed Loki towards a corner. “How _dare_ you stand there and tell me that _one man_ took down the most elite team of assassins this side of the continent. I don’t _care_ how smart he was. This should not have happened! You did not do your job- a very _simple_ job- and you’re lucky I paid you _anything_ , you ungrateful _failure._ Now,” Sir Alexander drew himself up and put some distance between himself and Loki. “Get out of my castle.”

*

Loki prowled about the streets like a caged tiger. He had barely enough money to buy food for the next month. His shoes were wearing thin, as was his patience. Hard green eyes glared at anyone who dared regard him with fear or pity. He needed no comment on his sharp cheekbones, his haggard appearance. If cannibalism were legal, he may have been tempted to murder and devour the next person that stepped into his path.

As luck would have it, the next person who stumbled into his path was a drunken wreck of a man with his red shirt half-off, his black hair mussed, and a near-empty bottle clutched in one hand. He was slurring something incoherent at the angry redhead who, from the looks of it, had just kicked him out; his only comeback was to drain the rest of the bottle down his throat.

“Tony?”

The man spun dizzily around. “Lokes!” He grinned widely, opened his arms wide, and hugged Loki around the chest. His weight rested heavily against Loki.

“Yes, hello.” Loki grimaced and pried the suddenly-affectionate man off of him.

Tony grinned soppily up at him. “Where’ve you _been?_ I’ve been- [hiccup!] _everywhere_ for you!”

“I highly doubt that…” Loki debated whether he could escape this reunion or not. It had seemed like fate when he’d found Tony exactly like this, all those years ago, back when Tony had been a discouraged, drunk inventor. Now, Tony seemed to have given up on the ‘inventing’ bit and gone straight for the ‘drunk.’

“Yeah,” Tony agreed emphatically. “ _Everywhere.”_ He pointed a finger at Loki’s chest, his fingertip bumping Loki’s sternum.

“How persistent of you.” Loki looked around for an escape.

“You know,” Tony said with the air of someone about to begin a long story, “I always liked your hair.”

“That’s nice, Tony.” Loki began walking.

Tony stumbled after him. “And you know what? You’ve got the greatest _smile._ Used’ta think you looked like a shark that was about’ta _eat_ me. But you know what? You have got a _really_ pretty smile.”

“Thank you, Tony.” Loki was visibly uncomfortable.

“And you know what else?”

Loki began walking faster. Tony stumbled to keep up with him.

“Your _skin_ is _amazing_ and I am _so glad_ I found you.”

Loki was forced to an abrupt halt when they came to an intersection, and a cart pulled by four horses pulled through. He held out a hand to stop Tony from stumbling into the intersection.

Tony was confused at first, but his eyes widened when he realized that there was a cart there. He turned his awed eyes on Loki. “You—you just saved my _life.”_

“Think nothing of it,” Loki ground out.

Tony clung to his arm. Tears gathered in his wide eyes. _“Thank_ you!”

Loki winced. “How much have you drank?”

Tony frowned at the ground. He held up one finger, then two, then three, then frowned in confusion at Loki. “Five days?”

“That’s all you’ve had for five days?”

Tony nodded, grateful and amazed that Loki understood.

Loki sighed heavily. He wrapped an awkward arm around Tony’s shoulders. “Come on. Let’s get you sober.”

*

Nursing Tony back to sobriety was one of Loki’s least favorite things. It involved a lot of hugging, and crying, and having to bear the other man’s weight on their multiple trips to the bathroom. He loathed cleaning up puke almost as much as he loathed the constant slurred babble and the sheer naked emotion leaking out of Tony like a sinking ship.

And yet, as the man shook, his teeth chattering, his skin clammy and coated with sweat, Loki could not find it in his heart to hate him. He wrapped Tony in every blanket the inn had to offer, held him through the night, and spoke in soothing tones until Tony was able to sleep. He knew that when Tony had recovered, he would feel every bit as awkward about this as Loki had, but as Tony recovered, Loki found that he seldom felt awkward anymore. There was something about the long nights holding Tony in his arms, having Tony look at him with such pleading trust, having someone _need_ him like that which thawed the very depths of Loki’s icy heart.

Not that he would ever mention this to Tony.

It seemed that whenever Tony was drunk, that was the only time they could be truly honest.

Loki was always equal parts relieved and disappointed that Tony would never remember it.

Tony always had a vague inkling that Loki had helped somehow, but Loki always diminished his philanthropy, claimed he’d done little more than help Tony not to drown in his own vomit, and Tony would always nod and say thank you, and that was the end of that.

So it was little surprise that on Tony’s first day of being mostly himself again, Loki was distant and quiet, as usual. He’d spent nearly all his money on food and lodging for the two of them; he had yet to mention this, either.

“Did you get any money?” Tony asked eventually. “Because it seems like we ought to have been paid by now.”

“No,” Loki lied. By now, that was basically true. “Did you?”

Tony snorted. “Why do you think I asked? You know, I think we should storm the castle and demand our funds.”

Loki rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m sure the king and queen would be happy to welcome in a band of assassins demanding their pay.”

“She doesn’t know what it was for.”

“No, but Sir Alexander does, and he’s about as trustworthy as a crocodile.”

“But he _owes_ us.”

Loki shrugged an apathetic shoulder. “I have no wish to cross bows with Sir Alexander.”

“But he cheaped out on us! We did our job. We kidnapped the guy. We tried to kill him. We ought to at least get _some_ pay!”

“I do not disagree with you, Stark. But the fact remains that we are wanted criminals. He could turn on us at any moment.”

“What, so you’re just chickening out? You’re not even gonna _try_ to get our money?”

Loki sipped his tea.

Tony threw his hands out in frustration. “Seriously? We dedicate a week of our life to helping this guy, and _that’s_ your response?”

Loki continued sipping his tea, and pretended to ignore him.

“Well fine. If you won’t do it, I’ll find someone else who will.” Tony put on his shoes.

Loki sighed. “Where are you going?”

“Out,” Tony answered vaguely. He stood, brushed himself off, and opened the door.

“Tony—”

Tony walked out.

*

It had been a week since Sir Alexander had promised he’d sent his four fastest ships to chase down Steve Rogers and bring him back, a week since Sir Alexander had said ‘if only he’d known that Bucky truly loved Steve, he would have never sent Steve away,’ a week since those hollow words echoed off the walls of the throne room and filled Bucky’s heart with false hope.

As Bucky paced back and forth across his uncomfortably ornate chambers for the third hour that day, hands clenched behind his back, a glower set heavily on his face, his door opened.

Sharon slipped inside and closed the door softly behind her. “I have some bad news,” she announced.

“Is Steve all right?!”

“Steve is fine,” Sharon answered quickly. “-as far as I know. But a servant of mine has just been to the ship yard, and she has just informed me that the four fastest ships are still docked.”

“Maybe they came back.”

Sharon regarded Bucky with a mixture of wariness and sympathy. “Bucky… they never left.”

“But he promised— He said-!”

Sharon held up a hand. “I know what he said. And believe me, I wish we could trust him, but there’s something you should know. Sir Alexander is-”

The door opened. Sir Alexander regarded the princess with surprise. “Barnes!” he said with hollow mock-cheerfulness. “You changed your mind!”

Bucky took two steps back from Sharon. “Where’s Steve?”

“We’re still searching for him,” Sir Alexander promised with a politician’s smile. “Although, you may want to consider the option that he’s not coming back for you.”

“He will come for me,” Bucky said with complete conviction. “As long as he’s alive, Steve will _always_ come for me.”

Sir Alexander’s smile sharpened, became even less believable. “And what if he doesn’t?”

“Steve will _always_ come for me,” Bucky repeated.

Sir Alexander’s eyes flicked from Bucky to Sharon, then back again. “We’ll see.”

*

Steve had lost all concept of time. He had no idea what day it was, or what time it was, and was even beginning to wonder what _month_ it was. His only nutrition had come through a needle to his veins. Every day, the short, pudgy scientist had tried a different ‘experiment’ on him. Steve was sore all over, and bleeding from several shallow wounds. His shoulder was still healing. And he was still strapped down to a table, in a cold stone cavern, and had managed to extract no information on where he was, other than ‘underground.’

He was expecting another round of dubious experiments and some chilling comment from the pudgy scientist when a different man stormed in. He was taller, dressed in fine royal garb, and his hair was a faded strawberry blond. He strode directly towards Steve’s table and leaned over him, his hands braced on the slab. “You might have truly loved each other,” the man began with no prelude, “So you might have been truly happy. But whether you like it or not, loving another man is _sick_ and _vile_ and I _will not_ stand idly by.”

The man abruptly spun around and headed towards the large machine to Steve’s right.

“What are you doing?” asked the pudgy scientist, alarmed.

The man threw a switch with all his might.

“Not to fifty!” objected the pudgy scientist, standing up.

Steve arched suddenly off the table, all his muscles clenched, and screamed.

*

Tony wandered into the absolute last person he expected to see wandering about the marketplace, but was exuberant nonetheless. “Buddy!” He clapped the mountainous muscles on the blond man’s back.

Thor turned to grin at him. “My friend!” He embraced Tony in a bone-crushing hug.

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony grunted, “It’s me. Thor!” He struggled. “Air!”

Thor released him, grinning widely. “I trust you have been well!”

Tony rubbed his sore ribs. “Yeah. Ran into Loki. He’s been feeding me and stuff.”

“You found my brother!” Thor exclaimed with surprise. “Do you know his whereabouts?”

“Yeah, he’s just back at the inn. You wanna-?” Tony gestured back towards the inn.

“Yes! Very much so.”

And so Tony led Thor back to the inn.

Loki was less-than-enthusiastic.

“Brother!” Thor exclaimed, enveloping Loki in a hug so tight Loki’s feet left the ground.

“Brother,” Loki replied with a venomous grunt, glaring off into space.

And so the three of them were reunited.

They each explained their whereabouts and how each of them came to be defeated by the masked man. Each of their stories included some mention of the masked man’s indomitable resolve to reunite with the man named Bucky.

“I wonder why he was so set on finding him?” Tony wondered aloud.

“I may know.” Loki recounted what bits and pieces he had overheard through the doors at the palace.

Thor’s eyebrows were raised high. “Then we must help them reunite!” he boomed.

“It is none of our affair.”

“Loki.” Tony clapped him on the shoulder. “This guy beat all of us in battle, right? He wants to reunite with his childhood-friend-turned-lover-or-whatever. _We_ want into the castle. So here’s what I’m thinking…”

Loki raised an eyebrow. “You’re thinking he can help us.”

“Exactamundo.” Tony slapped Loki on the back.

“But where is he?”

And that’s when they heard the distant scream.

*

Sir Alexander informed Bucky the next day that they had found Steve.

He allowed Bucky enough time for this information to sink in, enough time for his eyes to light up and his demeanor to brighten, enough time for Bucky to ask where he is and how far away before Sir Alexander held up a hand.

“He’s dead.”

Bucky paused. Bewildered incomprehension clouded his eyes.

“We found him dead this morning,” Sir Alexander informed him with mock-sympathy. “I’m so sorry.”

“That—” Bucky gulped. “That can’t be.”

“We’ll give you some time to process this.”

“No!” Bucky shook his head and backed away. “That can’t be!”

“Barnes,” Sir Alexander warned.

“YOU’RE LYING!” Bucky screamed. He pointed a shaking finger at Sir Alexander. Tears gathered in his eyes.

“Guards.”

“HE’S LYING! Steve _can’t_ be dead! HE PROMISED HE’D ALWAYS COME FOR ME!”

Guards surrounded Bucky from every side.

“Promises,” Sir Alexander informed him as Bucky was knocked unconscious with a sedative, “so rarely come true.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because apparently I'm a masochist when it comes to my favorite character  
> I'm sorry, Bucky. I am so sorry.
> 
> it gets happier I promise


	5. Chapter 5

Steve Rogers was strapped down to a stone slab, in an underground chamber far away from the castle. He was secured to the table in several places, but the restraints seemed rather pointless, considering his eyes were closed, his muscles relaxed, and his chest unmoving.

“He’s dead,” Thor proclaimed with concern.

Tony leaned over to listen near Steve’s nostrils. He waited a few seconds before straightening up. “Nope. Not breathing.”

Disappointment settled over the group. Thor’s shoulders slumped; Tony ran both hands through his hair and asked a general “Now what?”

Loki stared at the corpse. He bore an odd, calculating expression. “We may still have a chance.”

“Well, unless you know any vampires or necromancy, I think we’ve lost our shot,” Tony quipped.

“How about,” Loki met his eyes, “-a miracle worker?”

Tony raised both eyebrows. “You’re kidding right?”

*

Loki knocked on the door.

“Go away!” an old man answered from inside.

Loki pounded harder.

“Go away!” the old man repeated, louder.

Loki continued to pound on the door until it opened, and an old man dressed primarily in purple rags answered. “What are you, deaf? I told you to fuck off!”

“We are in need of your services,” Loki informed him.

“Too bad. I’m retired.” The old man attempted to close the door.

Thor’s hand stopped him. “Please,” he pleaded. “We have traveled long and far seeking your services.”

“You don’t want me,” the old man retorted. “I can’t do _nothin’._ And even if I could, I’m retired. Accent on the _tired._ So, if you’ll please fuck off-”

“Who is that?” asked a younger, female voice from inside.

“No one, honey!” the old man called over his shoulder. “Now get your stinky asses off my doorstep before I-”

A thin woman with wavy brown hair and large green-hazel eyes joined the old man near the doorway. “Are they here for a miracle?” She asked, after taking in the crowd on their doorstep.

“Please,” Thor repeated. “Our friend is in dire need of your help.”

The thin woman contemplated the unconscious man being carried between the three of them. She met each set of eyes, one by one. She turned to the old man. “Let them in.”

The old man balked and sputtered. “But Wanda-”

“I will help you,” she promised them.

The three men carried Steve in and set him on the space Wanda cleared off for them on her table. The old man in purple rags fretted the whole time, wringing his hands and making comments on how Sir Alexander would surely have their necks for doing magic again, some babble about how they hadn’t filed for a renewed license and how they’d been outcasts since Wanda made some huge mistake, but Wanda held up two fingers and a curious red light at the old man’s lips silenced him.

She bent to examine Steve’s body. She checked his pulse, his breathing, hovered over his torso as though to listen to his internal organs. She strode over to the fireplace and retrieved the bellows.

“What are you doing?” Tony asked.

Wanda inserted the tube end into Steve’s mouth and pumped the bellows until his lungs were full. As she pumped, she explained. “As it turns out,” she said with her curious accent, “your friend here is only _mostly_ dead.”

“Mostly?” Tony replied incredulously. “His vitals have stopped! What else do you need to do before you’re _entirely_ dead?!”

Wanda removed the bellows from Steve’s mouth and gently set them down; her hair swayed as she did so. She held up a finger to her lips, meeting Tony’s eyes, and then turned her attention to Steve. “Tell me,” she said, her voice weighted with curiosity and compassion, “what is it that has kept you hanging on to life as you have? What reason do you have to endure this much to stay alive?” She pressed on his chest.

Tony was about to make some sarcastic comment when Steve’s lips actually _moved_ and _sound_ came out. Tony startled.

“What did he say?” Thor asked.

“True love,” Wanda repeated. She eyed the three of them with renewed curiosity. “I don’t suppose he was speaking about one of you?”

“No!” Tony objected very quickly. “He’s in love with this Bucky guy, who’s supposed to marry Princess Sharon, something about her parents getting old and her needing to take over the kingdom, yadda yadda, can’t do that without a king, which I think is _bullshit,_ by the way, why do you ask?”

“He may have been woken by true love’s kiss,” Wanda deadpanned, “but seeing as none of you are his true love, I will have to use something else.”

Tony blinked rapidly. “You—you’re _kidding_ , right?”

Wanda silently approached the fireplace and removed a few bottles from the mantle; a small smile tugged at her lips, which Tony could not see.

“Hold on!” objected the old man in purple rags. “How are you gonna pay for this?”

“Do not worry about it,” Wanda said without looking.

“No, that shit is expensive! How are you guys gonna pay for this?”

“We are storming the castle for a large sum of money, which we are owed,” Thor explained. “I don’t suppose we could promise you a portion of that?”

“No good,” the old man said. “You could be lying. We need some sort of collateral, _now._ ”

Loki rolled his eyes. “How about these?” He removed the golden gauntlets from his wrists and held them forward as offering.

The old man eyed them. “How do I know those aren’t illegal, or completely worthless?”

“Feel their weight,” Loki pressed. “Do these feel worthless to you?”

The old man weighed them in his hands. “Could still be illegal though.”

“Clint,” Wanda admonished. “Who will know or care out here?”

“There could be somebody!”

Wanda gave him a look.

Clint rolled his eyes and pocketed the gauntlets. “Okay, fine. But you’d better be back with real money!”

Wanda rolled her eyes and shook her head. She had a small cauldron boiling over the fire.

“How long is that gonna take?” Tony asked.

“Could be a few hours,” Wanda said, stirring it slowly. “Make yourselves comfortable.”

*

Bucky agreed to marry Sharon that very night.

“Are you sure?” Sharon objected. “We can wait. The queen isn’t dead yet. It doesn’t have to happen _now._ ”

Bucky stared off into space with dead eyes. “May as well.”

Sharon squeezed Bucky’s shoulders. “I know you’re hurting because you just lost Steve, but you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to marry me, ever, if you don’t want to.”

Bucky’s eyes slowly tracked over towards her face. “Who’s Steve?”

Sharon frowned in alarm, but she tried to hide it since guards were nearby, and she had lost all trust for them years ago. Most of them reported directly to Sir Alexander. “Your childhood friend? He worked on a farm with you?”

“Never heard of him.” Bucky’s voice was almost completely devoid of inflection.

Sharon hadn’t put all the pieces together, but she could almost mentally slap herself for not realizing sooner that Bucky had gone through no training. Bucky’s strange behavior, Sir Alexander’s oddly vague updates on his progress, Bucky’s repeated absence, the fever which Bucky only half-remembered—Sir Alexander must have been drugging Bucky this whole time. She intended to figure out for what purpose, but she had to maintain her effervescent princess façade. “Bucky,” she said gently. “They killed your friend.”

“I don’t remember him,” Bucky said just as quietly, but there was just the slightest sliver of doubt in his gunmetal-gray eyes.

“Very well,” she said with more volume. “If you wish to marry me, then we shall wed. But please, allow me to make arrangements first? We need a feast, and an orchestra, and-”

“Already taken care of, Your Highness!” Sir Alexander announced cheerfully. “We knew he’d come around.”

Sharon raised her eyebrows. “You have the invitations set out? Chairs for our guests?”

“Down to the last place mat,” Sir Alexander confirmed.

“What about my dress?”

“You’ll wear your mother’s.”

“It needs to be taken in,” Sharon hedged.

Sir Alexander clapped his hands. A servant scurried forward. “Fetch me the royal seamstresses!” he ordered.

“You’re sure we can have this ready _tonight?”_ Sharon pressed.

“We’ve been making preparations for weeks! Of course we’re ready.” Sir Alexander placed a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “It was only a matter of time.”

That was what clinched it for Sharon. She was _sure_ Sir Alexander was up to no good. He’d had his eye on the throne ever since the queen had taken ill.

“Then tonight it shall be.” Behind her false smile, her mind raced for a way to stop the wedding.

*

Thor had barely closed Steve’s mouth around the pill and tilted his head back to force him to swallow it before Steve’s wild blue eyes flew open and shouted Bucky’s name. His gaze flitted uncomprehendingly from one face to another. The furrow between his eyebrows deepened. “Where am I? How did you find me? Why won’t my arms move? _Where’s Bucky?”_

“In order of your questions,” Tony volunteered, “You are just on the edge of the castle grounds, we found you because you were screaming, don’t know, found you that way, and he’s in the castle.”

Steve glared at him warily. “How do you know where he is? How do I know I can trust you?”

“My friend,” Thor said with a smile, “We only wish to help you.”

“Not true,” Tony pointed out. “We want into that castle because a guy owes us money. _You_ want into the castle because your cousin Binky is there. You help us get into the castle, we help _you_ get into the castle, we both get what we want. Capiche?”

“He’s not my cousin.” Steve’s thumb twitched. “And his name is Bucky.”

“Whatever. So how do we get in?”

Loki was crouched behind a wall, peering over it. “The castle is guarded by…” His lips moved silently, counting. “-sixty men. And once we get past them, we need to unlock the gate with a key. There will no doubt be armed guards inside.”

“Shit,” Tony cursed.

“I could take twenty of them,” Thor offered.

“And I could easily take ten,” Loki added, “Perhaps more.”

“What, so you’re gonna leave the rest to me and the paraplegic?”

Steve glared at Tony.

“By then,” Loki said levelly, “he should be healed.”

“And how long are we just supposed to sit here?” Tony countered, impatient. He crossed his arms.

“As long as it takes,” Loki answered.

Tony sighed loudly and rolled his eyes.

“Careful,” Loki warned. “If they hear you or see you, we may have to fight sooner than we are ready.”

“You really think this is a good idea?” Steve asked. He was able to move his fingers, but not much else.

“You want to rescue your lover do you not?” Loki murmured. His eyes were fixed over the edge of the wall again. Something was happening. A crowd was gathering.

“My fair citizens!” announced a voice from the balcony. The voice belonged to Sir Alexander. “Tonight is a special night, a night for celebration! For tonight, our Princess shall be wed!”

Applause broke out.

“As you know,” Sir Alexander continued once the applause had calmed down, “Our beloved queen has been ill, God rest her soul. It is her wish that our new king and queen be coroneted before she dies. And so, fair citizens! Tomorrow, we shall coronate our new king and queen!”

Loud applause, peppered with whistles and screams, broke out so loud that whatever Tony was saying to Loki, Loki couldn’t hear. He hushed Tony and ignored his rapid gesturing.

“And tonight,” Sir Alexander concluded, “We celebrate!”

The audience roared.

Someone tapped Loki on the shoulder, and Loki finally turned to see what all the annoying fuss was about.

Steve had vanished.

Loki cursed and followed after Tony while Sir Alexander proceeded to give a long-winded speech about honor and glory and the future of their country. Thor was just barely ducking behind the wall, nearly visible with every step. As they rounded a turn, Tony and Loki were able to see that Steve was crawling away from them, towards an opening that led down to the courtyard. Thor grabbed his ankle in an attempt to stop him. Steve kicked at Thor. Thor hauled him in by the leg until he was pinning Steve to the ground. Steve struggled; Tony and Loki caught up.

“You said he was in the castle!” Steve hissed. “You didn’t say _anything_ about him getting _married!”_

“We are here to stop the wedding!” Thor said.

“No you’re not.” Steve smiled with anger behind his eyes. “ _You’re_ here to collect on a _debt_. You couldn’t care _less_ about whether he’s getting married. I’ll bet none of you even _care_ about the future of this country. _You’re_ just here so you can get _paid._ ”

“All right,” said Tony. “You caught me. We want the money. But who says we can’t do both?”

Loki gave him a look.

Tony held up his hands. “Look, all I’m saying is, why not kill two birds with one stone? We’re gonna be in the castle _anyway._ Why not help the guy out?”

“I’ll help you get into the castle,” Steve promised, “but after that, you’re on your own.”

“Fine. Deal.” Tony held out his hand to shake. Thor released Steve from his grasp. Tony shook Steve’s hand and pulled him to his feet.

“Now then,” Tony said. “About storming the castle…”

*

Sharon stood at the altar with a diplomatic smile on her face. Despite all her efforts to poke holes in Sir Alexander’s plan, to reveal any flaw and delay the wedding however she could, every effort was met with failure on her part and an alarming level of preparedness on his. Sir Alexander really had been planning this wedding for months. The seamstresses has altered her dress at an impressive speed, and it fit her beautifully. The food was all ready on time, all the guests had arrived and were enjoying themselves, and the musicians were ready with their sheet music before she arrived in the main hall.

The minister, at least, seemed to have caught Sharon’s desperation. She had caught Sharon’s eye, and something unspoken had passed between them. The redhead was now coolly giving the world’s most long-winded speech on true love bringing people together, and quoting lengthy passages from not only the Bible, but every fictional book she could think of. Her choices ranged from Shakespeare to Mother Goose.

Sir Alexander was getting visibly annoyed.

The minister seemed amused by this. She continued her long-winded speech.

Sharon kept hoping that somehow, something would go wrong—a guest would knock over a candle, a dish would be over- or undercooked, someone would have a heart attack- _something!_ And yet the wedding moved smoothly on.

Bucky Barnes stood beside her, a silent, hollow presence. He answered only when spoken to and took no initiative of his own. He was little more than a walking doll.

When it came time to exchange vows, Sharon prattled on at length about how happy she was to be here and how she never imagined she’d end up with her One True Love. In fact, she injected the phrase ‘true love’ as much as possible, and even plagiarized the majority of Bucky’s story about his childhood sweetheart, name and all, in an effort to bring him back to his senses. Yet his eyes remained hollow, his expression blank.

“I vow to love you forever,” Bucky said, “And to cherish you, till death do us part.”

“BUCKY!”

Several heads turned. A man stood at the top of a staircase, bloody sword in hand. Several guards lunged for him; he fought them off one by one.

“Steve?”

“Exchange the rings!” Sir Alexander demanded.

The minister gave him an odd look. “In the middle of a fight?”

“He’s not fighting!” Sir Alexander insisted.

The minister fixed her eyes on the blond man battling his way down the stairs. The guests near the bottom of the staircase scattered. More and more heads were turned in that direction. Guests were beginning to leave.

“Do it!” Sir Alexander hissed. “Now!”

“Bucky!” the blond man shouted again. He struggled, holding off three men at once.

Bucky blinked; his eyes began to clear. “Steve.” He frowned and held his forehead, as though fending off an intense headache.

Sir Alexander stood and unsheathed his sword.

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Sharon reached under her dress and pulled out a rapier. She held it out in front of her and glared at the guests. “Get out of here!” she ordered them. “Now!”

“Sharon?” the queen asked in utter confusion.

“Daniel, get her out of here,” Sharon ordered the king.

The king escorted a befuddled queen out with a hand on the small of her back. The queen kept looking around in confusion.

“Sharon!” Sir Alexander barked in surprise. “I never knew you had it in you.”

“Always took after Aunt Peggy.” She pointed her rapier at him. “Come one step closer, if you want to be charged with assaulting the princess.”

“It was self-defense,” Sir Alexander said with a sickly smile, arcing his sword towards her. Metal clanged against metal.

Steve fought his way through the remaining guards and ran towards “Bucky!”

“Steve?” Bucky said, still not entirely himself. “Steve, look out!”

Someone stabbed Steve from behind. Steve and Bucky both stared at the blade protruding from Steve’s abdomen, equally baffled and dizzy.

Sharon stabbed Sir Alexander straight through the heart.

His sword tumbled out of his hand. He staggered backwards towards the wall. “You’ll regret that,” was the last thing he said. He slumped down the wall, leaving a smear of blood in his wake.

His sword remained embedded in Steve’s side.

“STEVE!” Bucky ran towards him and held him by the shoulder with shaking hands. He blinked rapidly to ward off tears. “No. Steve, no. I just got you back. Steve. Steve, _please!”_

Steve placed one hand over Bucky’s and smiled weakly up at him. “I’m all right, Buck.”

*

Tony, Loki, Thor, and Steve had all gone separate ways once they got into the castle. Steve’s plan to get past the guards and through the gate was _brilliant._ Tony couldn’t remember the last time he’d had so much fun.

It had made logical sense to go their separate ways once they were inside, but once Tony reached the end of the hallway, everything else flew out of his head, because _there he was._

The man was shorter than Tony had remembered, his face pudgy, and he wore little round glasses. He looked about as threatening as someone’s pet turtle.

But there was no denying the number of fingers on his hand.

Black rage ran through him.

“Hello,” Tony said. “My name is Tony Stark. You killed my father.” He leveled his sword at him. “Prepare to die.”

Zola ran.

Tony chased after him, desperation nipping at his heels. “Oh no you fucking _don’t!”_ he muttered to himself. He chased the short, fat man down hallway after hallway. The guy was a surprisingly fast runner. But eventually, Tony had him cornered. There was nowhere for him to run.

“Hello!” Tony repeated, chest heaving. “My name is Tony Stark. You killed my father. Prepare to die.” He lunged at Arnim Zola sword-first.

Zola surprised him with a skillful parry. “I did not kill your father.”

“Yes you did, you son of a bitch!” Tony hacked at him, all anger, no finesse. “You sent one of your brainwashed goons after him, _you_ wanted him assassinated, his blood is on _your hands!”_

“Not mine,” Zola insisted, blocking him yet again. “I am not the man zat killed him.”

“Don’t you feed that bull crap to me!” Tony thrusted at him over and over, the blade clashing repeatedly against Zola’s, to Tony’s elevating frustration. “You killed my father!”

“I did not.”

“YOU KILLED HIM!” Tony knocked Zola’s sword out of his hand with a mighty swipe.

Zola leaned back against a wall, panting, terrified. “Vhat do you vant from me. I vill give you _anysink.”_

Tony leaned very close to him. “You know what I want?” His knuckles went white around his sword-hilt. “I want my father back, you son of a bitch.”

Tony thrusted his sword into Zola’s gut. He pushed it in until it was nearly buried hilt-deep. He watched, with satisfaction, as the light bled out of Zola’s eyes. And only when he was absolutely sure he was dead, did Tony remove his sword.

Zola’s body tumbled to the ground.

Tony stood there, his chest heaving, sweat dripping down his brow, for a long moment. Two-thirds of his life had been leading up to this point. Here he stood, victorious, over the man who had killed his father, and yet he felt no triumph. It was finally over. He’d gotten his revenge. And yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t it. This wasn’t the satisfaction he was looking for. As he looked down at the corpse of Arnim Zola, Tony realized that he’d been filled with a hunger that one death can’t fix. He needed to right some wrongs. He needed to get out there and help other people right some wrongs.

Well, Tony supposed, he could help right one more wrong tonight.

Tony wiped the blood off his sword and made his way towards the throne room. The castle was in disarray, confused guests milling about and gossiping in frantic tones. The thicker the crowd, the closer he was.

Tony did not expect to arrive on the scene of Steve laid out on a white cloth, bleeding heavily, his face pale, with Bucky and Princess Sharon bent over him in worry.

“Dammit!” Tony exclaimed. “I leave him alone for _five minutes—_ Steve, we _just_ saved you!”

“It’s just a scratch,” Steve said from his place lying down. “They’re overreacting.”

“He _ran you through_ with his _sword!”_ Bucky practically screamed. He was shaking.

“And it’s already healing, see?” Steve pointed at where his skin was, in fact, mending.

Tony frowned. “What the hell did she _put_ in that stuff?”

“What stuff?” Sharon said.

Tony switched his weight from foot to foot and explained their trip to ‘Miracle Max’, “Short for Maximoff, apparently.”

“I know them,” Sharon said with surprise. “Sir Alexander executed her brother for insurrection and banished them!” She squared her shoulders and stood. “Where are they?”

Tony waved a hand vaguely. “Edge of the woods. Why?”

“I want them reinstated as the Royal Sorcerer and Sorcerer’s Apprentice.”

Loki burst into the throne room panting, one strand of dark hair plastered across his forehead. He furrowed his brows in confusion, sword slowly lowering.

“Lokes!” Tony called. “Glad you could join the party.”

Bucky was bent fervently over Steve, holding both of his hands between his own. “If you die on me again, Steve, I fucking swear-!”

“I’m not gonna die, Buck.”

“How do I know that?!” Bucky demanded, squeezing Steve’s hands far too tightly. Tears streamed down his face. “I lost you twice, I can’t lost you again!”

“You’re not gonna lose me. Buck,” Steve pleaded.

Bucky met his eyes, trembling, more tears gathering.

“Look at my side,” Steve urged gently. “Just look at it.”

Bucky gripped Steve’s hands even more tightly, all his knuckles going white, and forced himself to look down. The wound in Steve’s side had nearly completely closed, and a new, pink layer of skin was already knitting itself closed over top of the wound. The bleeding had nearly stopped.

“I’ll be fine,” Steve insisted.

“You fucking better.” Bucky grabbed both sides of Steve’s face and kissed him.

Their kiss was so fervent, and so intense, that everyone instinctively distanced themselves from that part of the room to give Steve and Bucky some privacy.

Sharon cleared her throat. “So.”

Tony and Loki shot her a questioning glance.

“What brings you to my castle?”

Tony and Loki locked eyes. They had a silent conversation.

Tony volunteered to step forward. “Well. Sir Asswad over there owes us money. He hired us to go on what is now a _very_ questionable mission, which I will _not_ be sharing with you, but basically it involved kidnapping Binky over there.”

They all glanced at Steve and Bucky, who were now holding each other close, arms cradling each other like precious gifts, their faces pressed together, mouths still drinking each other in the world’s most passionate kiss.

All three onlookers turned away, blushing.

Tony cleared his throat. “And it also involved, as luck would have it, reuniting those two lovebirds over there. So.” Tony shifted his weight again. “Money?”

“How much did he owe you?”

Loki told her the full amount.

Sharon nodded. “I’ll see what we can do.”

“Brother!” Thor boomed, joining them in the throne room. “I’ve found the stables! We can—oh. Hello.” He greeted Sharon awkwardly, with a clumsy salute.

Sharon smiled at him. “Is he owed money, too?” she asked Tony.

“Yup.”

“Princess Sharon,” Thor said sincerely, genuflecting before her, “We do not wish to dishonor your aunt, the Queen, by stealing her horses, and yet we are in need of transportation.”

“The royal stables are full to overflowing,” Sharon granted. “How many horses do you need?”

Thor counted. “Enough for the five of us?”

Sharon crossed her arms. She seemed amused. “And where would you go?”

Thor fell silent. He shot a glance at Loki.

Loki glared at the ceiling.

“How about,” Sharon offered, “you stay here until you figure that out?”

*

**One Year Later**

The queen’s funeral was one of the saddest the kingdom had ever experienced. Rarely was any king or queen so loved, and so mourned. Nearly the entire kingdom was present for Queen Sharon’s heartfelt eulogy.

A few days later, the elderly king passed away in his sleep.

Queen Sharon ensured the kingdom that his legacy would be honored by their new king.

He stepped forward, caped and crowned and muscular, his blond hair braided majestically back from his face, the bottom half left flowing. He held up both hands and announced in his booming voice that justice and compassion would rule the kingdom.

The crowd roared.

A few steps behind her, the captain of the guard smiled. Sir Tony Stark had been knighted shortly after dispatching of one of the kingdom’s most wanted men, and had risen quickly through the ranks. The head of the royal treasury, Pepper Potts, stood close by his side, smiling.

Wanda Maximoff had regained her title as Royal Sorcerer, and Clint Barton had regained his status as the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, although he showed little aptitude for magic.

The king’s brother, Loki, was off on a diplomatic mission with Sharon’s personal assistant/ ordained minister, Natasha Romanoff. They would not be returning for several months.

And somewhere in the sunny countryside, far away from all of this, rode Steve and Bucky, atop their royally-bred stallions, and in the sunlight, they pulled their horses to a stop, and pulled each other close, and shared yet another True Love’s Kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told you it'd get happier~


End file.
